


The Longest Night

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-02
Updated: 2005-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7094452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley is hard to get rid of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1/2

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Note: This takes place right after "Reunion", and will probably be Jossed as soon as the new episodes start again. But I just couldn't see Wesley leaving so easily.

Improv Words: glimmer~fury~ease~silent

~~~~~ 

Leaving was never an option. When his world was ripped apart so gently by those three little words (you're all fired), actually going didn't cross Wesley's mind for a moment. 

Gunn had stomped out in a fine show of anger and resentment, sculpting in profanity as he did so. Cordelia had pattered after him in her designer heels, equally angry though expressing it rather less colorfully than the young street fighter had done. That neither of them noticed that their companion remained behind was rather too perfectly in character. 

Didn't make much difference, as Wesley hardly blinked at their departure either. He just sat there on the couch, his memory stuck on instant replay; showing Angel's final words, delivered with such simple arrogance and finality. 

When he finally shook himself out of the reverie, most of the night had passed, dawn was well on it's way, and he was tired and worn. Pulling off his glasses, rubbing weary eyes, Wesley moved stiffly over to the little coffee maker in the office. Setting it up, measuring coffee, water, adjusting things, all the little routines were obscurely comforting. He was able to watch it brew and bubble, and not think about anything for a few more blessed moments. 

Afterwards, seated behind the desk with coffee and stale donut, Wesley tried to take stock of the situation. He even dug out paper and attemped to work out various plans of action. 

But most of them involved him leaving the Hyperion at some point, and right now his mind refused to even contemplate that. It was like a roadblock in his head. He'd start down a mental path, perhaps one where he got Buffy, or one of the other Scooby gang to try and come talk sense to Angel, and then he'd *bang* up against the part where he'd have to leave and go to Sunnydale. And another train of thought derailed. 

Leaving was not an option. 

Then he spent several trying minutes attempting to figure out *why* he couldn't leave; and that was, if anything, more frustrating. It was as though contemplating leaving the hotel was as the same as leaving Angel himself, and that... hurt. 

Did no good to firmly tell himself that Angel showed no sign of wanting him there, or even within a thirty mile radius. Did no good when he pointed out to his recalcitrant psyche that staying could be hazardous to his health. Did no good to explain that remaining in a semi abandoned building with a vampire that might well be evil -- was very, very stupid. 

He couldn't go. 

And somehow, once that option was eliminated, there weren't that many other paths open to him, and leaving his now cold coffee and very stale donut and going upstairs to Angel's room... that didn't seem stupid at all 

If he couldn't go out, then he may as well go further in.... 

He didn't need to knock, the door was ajar. Wesley peered round the doorjamb, feeling a bit of deja-vu and wondering if he would see endless crumpled sketches of Darla scattered about the floor. No wads of paper this time, just Angel sprawled in a easy chair, reading something French and existential. 

"Still here?" Angel asked shortly, without looking up. 

"Yes." Wesley contemplated going into the room, but hesitated, waiting to see what Angel's reaction would be first. "I'm not leaving." 

"Why?" Still reading. Still not looking up. "I do seem to remember firing you." 

Unable to deny that, uncertain in his own heart of the truth, Wesley remained silent. 

Several slow, silent minutes crawled by. 

Leg starting to cramp, Wesley stretched to ease it, then carefully moved into the room and perched on the edge of a chair. 

At this, Angel finally looked up. "So. Why are you still here Wes?" Expression unreadable. But... in his eyes, a glimmer of *something*, and it raised the tiny hairs on the back of Wesley's neck. "Isn't that the basic purpose to a firing? The employee leaves," he added. Only a slight emphasis on the last word, only a minute fraction of cruelty in the tone. 

"I'm not going." Wesley repeated, at a loss for an explanation he could put into words. His heart said only //stay//. His soul said //don't let him be alone//. His mind knew that Angel would scoff at this, and bade his tongue remain still. 

Angel tilted his head, studying the slender form sitting across the room from him. "Well, if the purpose of a firing is to get rid of employees," he said musingly, as if working out a math problem, "And you are, as you say, not leaving; then you must not be an employee." 

He didn't wait for an answer, but rose with his usual grace. Setting aside his book, he walked across the room and picked up a decanter from his nightstand. The crystal sparkled as he poured two glasses half full of amber liquid. He came back, handed one to Wesley, and took a sip from the other before setting it down by his chair. 

Wesley took the proffered glass with sweaty fingers, but managed not to drop it. The whiskey burned going down, then settled in his middle and spread a warm glow there. 

"Normally, I wouldn't encourage drinking on the job of course," Angel went on, as he strolled around behind Wesley. "But you're not an employee. What I *do* want to know is...." 

Wesley flinched as chill fingers laced through the hair at the back of his neck. With a grip just this side of painful, Angel pulled, and Wesley had no choice but to rise, the whiskey glass slipping from his nerveless fingers. 

And of a sudden Wesley's whole world was composed of Angel's cool, soft breath on his cheek, and the words whispered in his ear: "What *are* you Wesley?" Angel's fingers still threaded through his hair, tugging his head back to rest awkwardly on the other man's shoulder. The vampire's other arm was tight about his chest, pinning his arms down, pulling him close (so close) with effortless strength. 

Pressed full length against him, Wesley could feel the hard evidence of Angel's arousal prodding at him, and he was hit with a burning rush of desire and fear so strong he almost wept. Now Wesley's heart said //take me//; and his soul replied //too late, I'm already his//. 

"Wes, what are you?" Angel inquired softly, nuzzling the tender skin behind his ear, breath behind the words a cool balm on his heated flesh. 

"A friend perhaps?" Sniffing at the fear/lust sweat springing up on his neck. 

"A fuck?" Licking at that sweat, lightly, delicately. 

"A meal?" A light nibble, Angel's teeth blunt and human, on his jugular. 

"What?" the word again, the question, whispered in his ear, tongue flicking at the earlobe so close. 

"Yours," the single damning word slipped from Wesley's lips, as if the hold Angel had upon him had squeezed it out. He closed his eyes, gave up pointless struggle, relaxing into the strong arms holding him and awaited the fury of tearing teeth.... 

Which never came. 

Next thing he knew, his butt hit the floor. Brain belatedly putting together the sequence of events, he realized that Angel had released him, stepped away, and without that bulwark his knees had given out. From his crumpled seat on the floor, Wesley attempted to straighten his clothes, cover the evidence of his arousal, but to small avail. He had the feeling he'd been permanently rumpled. 

Wesley did not rise, but awaited the next move in whatever game Angel was up to. Somehow he knew that if he ran, if he bolted for the open door, Angel would not pursue. An unwilling prey was not nearly as much fun as a willing one. Why he remained, why he was being such well-behaved prey... Wesley did not want to think about just now. 

"Mine, huh?" Angel said musingly from somewhere behind him. Braced this time, half expecting it, Wesley did not flinch when Angel touched him on his shoulder. He helped Wesley up off the floor, cool impersonal hands under his arms, and went on, "Still doesn't answer my first question, you know. Why are you still here?" 

Standing now, pulling his dignity and clothing into some semblance of normality, Wesley hesitated, but said, "I didn't want you to be alone." 

Gaining courage, he went on, "You're headed into a very dark place, Angel. If I can help, if I can do anything to bring some light to your path..." Finally looking up, meeting Angel's eyes, "then I have to try." 

Angel said nothing for a moment, though Wesley could still see something dark and hungry in the set of his mouth. 

"What are you going to do Wes, save me?" he asked, with a touch of sarcasm. 

"If I can," Wesley replied, simply. "If that's what you need." 

"Because you're *mine*." 

"Yes." 

"Damn," Angel said softly, coming up to him. "I haven't owned anyone for a long time. Not sure if I remember how...." 

He ran one cool fingertip teasingly down the other man's nose. Smirked at the slight flinch Wesley could not surpress. 

"Not quite ready yet, huh?" Angel asked with a cryptic smile, then turned away, going back to his book and glass of whiskey. "You look like hell; go get some sleep Wes." he added. 

"No, I told you I'm not--" 

"Leaving. Yes, I did hear you the first twenty times," Angel said, looking for his place in the book. "This is a hotel, it's just chock full of beds. Go use one." 

"A-alright," Wesley said quickly, before Angel could change his mind. He slipped out while Angel dived back into his book as if he'd never left it, and went into the room across the hall. 

Suddenly exhausted, Wesley could not even pull off his shoes, but fell onto the bed fully clothed. Sleep claimed him before he could begin to worry about the bargain he seemed to have made.... and perhaps that was for the best.


	2. 2/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place right after "The Longest Night" (which started at the end of "Reunion"), and veers off into an AU thereafter. I have a feeling this will be a series, so expect more Wesley-angst to come. as it turns out the series never did develop... sorry 'bout that

Notes: This takes place right after "The Longest Night" (which started at the end of "Reunion"), and veers off into an AU thereafter. I have a feeling this will be a series, so expect more Wesley-angst to come. as it turns out the series never did develop... sorry 'bout that

Thanks to Lar for the beta; any remaining mistakes are entirely of my own devising! 

~~~~~ 

Wesley was dreaming of wandering in musty library stacks, delighting in the familar smell of dust and paper and mildewed leather bindings. He felt safe here, surrounded by knowledge embalmed, thoughts caught like spiders in amber. 

Slowly, a bubble floating to the surface, he slipped into wakefulness. So easy was the transition that he thought he had just drifted into another dream, one of warm blankets, soft pillows, a cup of mint tea steaming gently on the bedside table, the sensation of eyes on him, that ancient horrid prickle on the back of one's neck that warned of danger.... 

Wesley blinked myopically at the teacup, thinking fast. That was the only thing in his fuzzy line of sight, and probably not the one causing him to have this feeling of being *looked at*. Slight comfort, he mused, to know that the china was the least dangerous thing in the room, but one takes what one can. 

He was quite awake by now, but lay utterly still. Events of last night unfolded in his mind's eye, an origami of memory. He remembered now, perfectly, all at once, and knew at that moment what *else* was bothering him. 

It was the slightly itchy touch of wool blankets on his shoulder, the cool smoothness of cotton sheets enfolding his lanky limbs, the complete lack of any separation between himself and those sheets, and the fact that he had fallen asleep without even removing his shoes last night, much less every stitch of clothing. 

That was bothering him quite a bit, more so than any ephemeral eyes that might be upon him, and now, carefully, slowly, he moved. Wesley sat up, turned and peered at the other side of the room from where he had felt that burning gaze; but what with the dimness of the space and his complete lack of glasses, he could not tell if Angel lurked in the shadows there or not. 

And now that prickle of danger had vanished as well, he could not say precisely when. There was a chance he had dreamed that part, he thought hopefully, fumbling for his glasses. Someone had thoughtfully placed them by the cup of tea, and he put them on with relief. The room snapped into clarity, each detail crisp... and completely devoid of lurking vampires. 

It was quite dim however. What light there was, was from the window, and he could see from the brillant streaks of cloud in the slice of visible sky that the sun must have just set. He must have slept the day away he realised, drinking the mint tea absentmindededly. 

His mind felt besieged with worries. What with losing his job last night, and *whatever* the hell he'd gotten himself into with Angel early this morning, Wesley had far too many things to brood about. The whole business of waking up naked... that was a little more than he cared to contemplate at the moment. 

Just then there was a loud crashing noise from far downstairs, followed by a spate of curses in archaic gaelic. 

With a firm promise to himself that he would worry about things like swearing fealty to vampires *later*, he set all of the unanswered questions aside. His clothes were folded neatly on a chair by the bed, and he dressed swiftly, finishing the tea and heading downstairs to see what had happened. 

He found Angel in the basement, in the middle of a massive cleaning spree. Boxes of paper and trash had been tossed into the incinerator, smoke and dust filled the room. Everything movable had been shoved aside to clear the floor. 

Wesley came halfway down the steps and saw Angel setting up a bullseye, for target practice one assumed, and he had the oddest wave of deja-vu at the sight. Dizzyness hit him hard, the room almost seemed to ripple, and he clutched at the banister to keep from falling down the stairs. Then a very strong hand clamped about his upper arm, and he found himself hauled upstairs. Angel plopped him down in a chair in the lobby. 

Embarassed, Wesley looked up at Angel as his equilibrium returned. The other man just stood silently, arms folded, staring down at him with a look of calculation in his dark eyes. 

Wesley didn't know what to say. Their whole relationship had undergone a sea-change in the last twentyfour hours; he had no guidelines now, no map to these rich and strange territories before him, no idea of how --or even if-- to proceed. 

But it seemed all of that was not to be settled now, for Angel just shook his head and stalked off. 

At a loss for anything else to do, Wesley followed him, up the stairs to Angel's room. He leaned in the doorway, watching Angel box up various papers, books, and -- he was interested to note -- all the drawings of Darla. 

What Wesley really wanted at the moment was to go home and change his clothes, and he was trying to think how to phrase that when suddenly Angel turned and tossed him a set of car keys. His car keys. 

Off Wesley's confused look, Angel said, "You can't go back to your apartment until morning, of course, but when you do, pack up enough for a few days. It's going to be a little while before I can help you move in." 

"M-move in?" Wesley asked, puzzled. 

"Yeah." Angel continued packing. 

"Well, um, Angel, I really don't think--" 

"No, Wes, you don't." 

"I beg your pardon?" 

Angel was moving, across the room in the blink of an eye, and was inches away before Wesley could say more. He laid one chill fingertip on Wesley's lips, sealing away further protests. 

"You don't think," Angel went on, quietly, intensely. "You gave yourself over to me, remember? You're mine now, and what's mine-" He leaned even closer, dark eyes boring into blue. "I keep." 

Trapped between the immovable wall at his back, and the irresistable vampire before him, Wesley could only nod. 

"Shall we make it official?" Angel asked, a devilish light in his eyes as his finger pressed harder on Wesley's lips. Pushed inward till Wesley could not resist and had to open his mouth. 

Ashes. That was the taste of Angel's skin, the flavor of that cool finger that was in his mouth, on his tongue. Shocked to the core by this invasion, nevertheless Wesley was bereft when Angel drew it out, moist and warm. 

Wesley could only watch as Angel took one of his hands, raised Wesley's wrist to his mouth and placed a single kiss there. Then he vamped, the golden eyes and ridged mask melting into place. A sliver of fear shot through Wesley's belly, but he did not protest as his wrist was brought to that mouth again, as Angel slowly licked where the pulse beat strongest -- then delicately nibbled. 

The pain was negligible, a pinprick, absolutely nothing compared to the wave of pleasure as Angel suckled softly at the vein. Bliss like honey, warm and sweet, seemed to course down his arm and straight to his groin. He could not help a small whimper of protest when Angel stopped after only a moment. 

"Your turn," Angel murmured, and Wesley watched as the vampire bit at his own wrist now, opening a tiny cut. 

When that was presented to him, the trickle of blood offered for his consumption, Wesley hesitated. This was an irreversable step. Though not enough to transform him into a vampire, still it would bind him, change him. 

It was a token resistance only, they both knew it. Wesley had placed his feet on this path that morning when he had laid his fate in Angel's hands. This was merely a formality, an outward symbol of a deeper connection. Wesley shut his eyes. Placed his mouth to the vampire's wrist, and groaned at the first stinging drops of Angel's blood on his lips. 

Iron, he tasted. Salt and cinnamon and red, red moonlight swirled together in his mouth and he drank. He could almost see it, the blood, burning and singing through his very soul. It seemed to last forever, but could not have been more than moments before Angel gently pulled his wrist away. 

Wesley felt faint and exhilarated all at once. Dizzy as well, and he wobbled a bit as Angel took his arm and helped him to his bed. He meant to sit, but ended up sprawled on his back instead. Giggling, Wesley just lay there, watching the room and Angel gently spin. It was like some incredible drug, all his senses were heightened and warped. 

From a distance he heard Angel say "You'll be all right in a while, just sleep it off." Then he was gone, and conciousness slipped from Wesley's grasp.


End file.
